On the Fly
by Fantastic Pants
Summary: Flying Man meets Teleporter Guy. Wild monkey sex ensues. [NathanHiro]


******On the Fly**

Short. Sweet. Complication free.

Yeah, just keep telling yourself that.

Convincing lies are just another truth, after all. Every self-respecting public servant would know that. _Does_ know that.

Not that truth has any meaning here, barring the highly murky, elastic kind.

Strange doesn't begin to cover this. Insane, maybe.

Nah, too mild.

Strange, insane, idiotic, brain-numbingly ridiculous - all these fine words have lost all flavor and meaning, not to mention right for existence.

That's what you got when you mixed together prophetic junkies, exploding men and cheerleaders in distress. A goddamn mess.

I still can't quite believe I'm thinking that, but at least I've finally moved into the acceptance part of the five stages. Reluctant – _very _reluctant acceptance, but still. It's something.

It still doesn't explain how this happened – _is_ happing, technically.

Okay, so it's not really a question of how.

It's a question of _what the hell_.

Another understatement.

Interesting that my inner censorship is still operational when he's doing --

…Huh.

"What're you doing?"

"It's, uh – " he gets that concentrated, my-forehead-is-about-to-burst-open look.

It's real cute and all, but if we make extra room for the very special language lessons, this is going to take a while.

"You know what - never mind. Just-" I close my eyes, draw a choppy breath. "Just keep doing it. It's good."

Not too bad, anyway.

There's something liberating about this.

There's no 'Nathan Petrelli – Future Congressman' here. No 'Husband', 'Lawyer,' 'Brother,' or a thousand other titles I'm too sick and tired of hearing on constant repeat.

Just 'Flying Man'.

It's got a nice ring to it.

If you're tone deaf.

Tone deaf. Not a bad thing to be, at the moment.

He's making weird sounds.

Can't recall the last time I've been with someone so – what's the word here?

Eager? Overeager? Charmingly infantile?

I'm a politician, for Christ's sake. I'm supposed to be good with words.

Might actually be a bit simpler without words, now. Thinking is disruptive. Certainly isn't helping any.

Should've known. That technique never works when you need it to.

Flying Man meets Teleporter Guy. Wild monkey sex ensues.

Wonder if the Enquirer would be interested in that story. Bet Linderman would _love_ that.

I have to stop myself from laughing out loud, barely coming up with a noise that's half-choked, half-gasped. Appropriate for the occasion, at least.

He really is trying too hard.

Enthusiasm is nice. Experience is better.

My turn.

Not too gentle, not too rough. Somewhere between traditional and freestyle.

Doesn't take long. Not a huge surprise on that front.

I roll to my back, leaving him panting quietly, gaping at the ceiling like he's been struck by lighting.

Can't say it's not flattering.

I work on catching my own breath. Not getting any younger here.

It's getting awfully silent on his end. Better check on him.

It's almost like a mirage, but for a couple of split seconds, he's a different man. Sad, pensive.

Far away.

Hey, what do you know. World's not all sunshine and puppies and Star Trek after all.

He's just like Peter, in a way.

Now, a moment ago I was absolutely certain that no thought could make this any more fundamentally wrong than it already is.

Proven wrong yet again.

It's just one of those days.

"Are you alright, Flying Man?" he puts timid emphasis on every word, and while I'd like to think that it's just linguistic inadequacy or simple insecurity, I know better.

He cares. Too goddamn much. With no good reason whatsoever.

Kid's gonna get burnt. It'll be a wonder if there's anything left of him by the time the curtain calls on this one.

"Yeah." I lie. "Everything's fine."

Always is.

Attempts of clearing my head only collide with irritating questions.

What the hell is a shark doing with a dolphin? Or a sea lion? Or whatever-the-hell this sword-stealing Japanese Boy Scout qualifies for?

I should go.

But it's late, and it's warm, and the fog inside my head isn't going away anytime soon.

He's snoring already. Not a jarring sort of snore, really. Soft – almost, kind of… nice.

When I wake up, there are intrusive rays of light crawling through the window, and it feels like somebody decided to leave a bunch of rocks inside my head as a farewell gift. Some firecrackers, too.

Lovely.

His side of the bed is vacant, but still warm.

Alright. Time to make up an excuse and get the hell out of here.

The key to short and sweet does, in fact, involve _leaving_ at some point.

We're bound to cross paths again, anyway. This guy comes with a full-blown destiny coverage.

Destiny. Now there's another word I wouldn't have thought of using outside of the realm of glorified bullshitting.

Life isn't easy for a skeptic these days.

Especially a flying one.

I look around the room. Locate my pants.

How did they get up _there_?

Still no luck in the shirt department when he comes in, carrying a tray of some kind.

He flashes one of his ultra-radiant smiles.

It's disturbing.

Maybe it's a part of his superpower. Genuine smiles shouldn't be this… smiley.

"Waffles?"

"Yeah." Mental pause. Waffles. What?

Oh, what the hell. It's not like things can get any weirder, anyway.

"Yeah. Sure, why not."

I use up the opportunity to think up a new campaign slogan.

Save the waffles, save the world.

Short. Sweet. Complication free.

Hey. Could work.


End file.
